


Tenets of the Dusk's Lucidity

by TrinesRUs



Series: Transformers: To Destroy [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Blasphemy, Class Issues, Dark Comedy, Gen, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4524360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrinesRUs/pseuds/TrinesRUs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of essays by the great philosopher, Dead End.</p><p>Each part of <em>Transformers: To Destroy</em> can be read independently, but this is recommended reading for the rest of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Decrepit Credenda

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the cultural context for these essays will be given within the essays themselves. The only piece of information given in a different part of the series that might be worth noting is that the Council, in this universe, promotes the idea that there are only two Cybertronian races, and Dead End is a Destron--a race erased from the official version of their history.

            Cybertron relies on light. Her inhabitants seek it out even in the pits of her fissures and on nights when the acid clouds smother the light from Alpha Centauri. They cling to the glow from their own optics if it is the only light available. Deprived of even that, they would even expose their sparks to the perils of the universe rather than submit to the dark.

            Light is seen as revelatory. Literally, it is _seen_. The reflection of light off of objects is what allows visible information to register and be recorded. Technology exists that enables shapes and outlines to be detectable in the dimmest of environs, but light presents the clearest view of our surroundings—and without the hassle of excess equipment or expending extra energy.

            But the virtues of vision are limited. Sight cannot reveal the trill of the lilleth’s song or the sting of rubbing antimony in a lesion or the aroma of a freshly drawn oil bath. Too much light can blind just as well as its absolute absence, and unlike its lack, intense light leaves permanent, agonizing damage.

            For all the dread directed toward it, the dark is perhaps more illuminating than light. Without the burden of visual input, greater processing power can be directed to perceiving and analyzing other sensory information. Signals once dismissed as insignificant register with new clarity. Confronted with total sensory deprivation, the dark offers more insight than any other situation. Lacking other alternative, the processor turns to the abstract, elucidating the truths of ourselves and our universe otherwise overlooked.

            Cybertron relies on light, but the dusk may grant more lucidity. All one has to do is look past the distraction of stars and city lights into the boundless dark matter beyond.

 

            Legend informs us the planet began with gods of order and chaos, creation and destruction. Their names were Primus and Unicron, and they each populated the perfect planet Primus built with their own race of sentient mechanical beings, Primus’ Cybertrons and Unicron’s Combatrons. Any nonsentient life and races that do not fit within this narrative, it could be supposed, spontaneously generated themselves from the ground. Each sentient life that was lost would return to an inner sanctum of the planet to mix with others and be reborn as a spark never before seen on the surface above.

            Despite the opposing nature of these two races, they are said to have lived in perfect harmony, sharing an idealized land with each other for many vorns, presenting offerings of precious artworks and prayers by incense to the gods that had given them such a charmed existence. That was until the ferocious Combatrons demanded more than what was allowed them. They waged a war on the Cybertrons and overpowered them, beginning a cycle of wars that ravaged the planet for generations. The race that eventually prospered, as could be surmised from the planet’s current name, remains our ruling elite to this sol.

            Temptation and weak will might lead one to cheer, but this simple tale holds a sinister underbelly. Lurking under the redolent balm of this myth lies the wretched, putrid actuality of existence. Seeking security in tales of a benevolent master and the merciful cycle of existence he offers covertly chains us to mediocrity. Clearing the fog of religious obedience from your processor and reaching beyond its confines paves the course to freedom. You are being deceived.

            Primus is dead, if He ever existed to begin with, or else He is a callous deity. Legend postulates the existence of a towering mech of infinite, benign power who fabricated Cybertron as idyllic paradise. And it was utopia. What else could one call a land where the only pests in existence were neighbors who insisted on more than their allotted joint room?

            Had Primus existed, or lived past this creation, or felt aught but apathy, how could He have allowed an oppressive government to conquer this idyll? A subjugator can hardly be government to begin with, but a truly benevolent deity would not allow His devotees to crumple to such depravity. A truly benevolent deity would not force them to pry liberty from the stiff, graying servos of a false king.

            And because our decaying deity constructed us in His own gruesome image, we ourselves are little more than animated corpses waiting to fail and fall. From the moment our sparks are united with frame, energon begins a protracted curdling process in our festering lines. Our creation is only the beginning of the inevitable end. Primus cannot save us if he does not exist, and he chooses to damn us if he does.

            Unicron, alleged menace, is better than Primus in that he makes no pretense of compassion. At least the Unmaker presents his indifference and barbarity in earnest instead of veiling it behind a façade of munificence. Nothing is more sinister than a power that would insist its integrity and righteousness while its spark is corrupt. When approached by Unicron, one expects to be crushed and is relieved when one is not. When approached by Primus, one could be crushed and must accept it as blessing.

            If there is no Primus, then there is no Afterspark. There may well be a Well of Allsparks, for where else would our sparks originate? But life after extinguishment is a sweet lie invented to avoid acknowledging the horrible truth that there is nothing awaiting us all beyond the terror of this existence. Were there such a post-reality, it is a wonder that any mech would seek it. Knowing the fates we are granted at Primus’ mercy of frames’ barriers, one could only imagine the horror of facing Him with bare spark.

            Without the distraction of an afterlife, we are forced to focus our concerns on present life and squandered resources. Energon and precious metals are constantly being wasted on religious ceremonies. The Matrix Flame, an ornament, incinerates minerals that could be enriching energon, fortifying construction materials. Countless crystals, paints, dyes, and mesh cloths are lost to crafting more minor ceremonial artifacts: blunted athames, hollow forges, censers, glow orbs, altar cloths, etc. The items that could conceivably serve a practical purpose are rendered useless by their ritual intent. Those without a practical purpose only serve to feed the ego of an ignoble overlord.

            The drain on _labor_ resources is, perhaps, more great than on physical resources. Artisans diverting their time to these ceremonial pieces could spend that time on other crafts. Artisans dedicating themselves solely to the craft of ceremonial pieces could contribute their time to more valuable pursuits. To suggest that they could do anything but creative production would be preposterous under a governing body that insists sparks determine the work a mech is capable of, but these mechs could either learn to create nonreligious works or extinguish their own sparks.

            Regardless of the outcome, suicide would answer several questions. If I am right about the lack of an Afterspark and if extinguished sparks do not return to the Well of Allsparks, then society will be free of the chains of religion without threat of their return. If the Afterspark does not exist but sparks return to the Well, then they will have the opportunity to return to us in a role more valuable to existence. If I am wrong entirely about religion, then Primus must being a forgiving being. If we are all wrong entirely about religion, then they were following a false path that none of us could have anticipated, and their practices are still as futile as the rest of existence.

            Undertaking this enterprise is indicative of a vacuous personality, however. This may seem redundant as an inability to apply artistic skill to secular crafts already suggests a lack of creativity, but the criticism stretches beyond our example of the simpleton artisan. Consider the structure of our _fine_ society. Suggesting that it inspires misery in mechs of typical psychological health is worth incurring the wrath of the Council. Implying that you are not of typical psychological health places you in an Unspeakable position.

            It could be suggested that my dismissal of religious authority is disparagement of the Prime himself, as the position is held to have the blessing of Primus. I believe that a leader’s right to rule derives from their intelligence and ability. No one asserts that Solus Prime, in her time, led with less than a bright processor, strong will, mighty power, and incredible skill. She did not require the will of Primus to substantiate her claim to authority. Any mech worthy of ascending to her position thus should not require Primus’ approval.

            The Prime derives power from Primus only as a tradition. In stellar-cycles long since past, when even the most progressive of intellectuals had yet to unravel the first thread of the universe’s mysteries, we may have been beholden to His power as our only glimpse of an answer. Appeals to Primus, at that time, were the only method of justifying events and reactions that no mech understood. Primus’ role in the line of succession remains as an artifact of an ancient lie.

            Primus is obsolete. He no longer presents a satisfactory answer to the uncertainties of the reality around us. Instead, He has become a barrier to discovery and progress. His existence would make us complacent with the mechanics of the universe being “just as they are” instead of embracing our capability for transformation, both of ourselves and our environment. Complacency suggests there is nothing left to strive for. Complacency portends that there will never be anything better than what we have right now. Complacency breeds idleness and impedes the ingenuity propelling scientific and creative advancement.

            Danger lurks in the threat this attitude could propose to the Council, for encouraging mecha to seek development beyond their present station could be seen as endorsement of defying the caste system. To equate seeking enlightenment with defiance of the government is to insinuate that the respected Intellectual caste is antagonistic to the caste system itself. The Council has enforced our role as The Thinkers of our society, so to fulfill our role, we must think. If seeking enlightenment is defiance, then our intended purpose, as established by the Council, would be to defy them.

            Moreover, greater damage has been done by an arrogant prince than could ever be done demolishing a defunct religious order. The moment Prince Starscream demanded to be an astronomer, the caste system was thrown into disarray. Any mech who presumed they _could_ reach beyond their caste called for the opportunity to. Perpetuating the supposed religious origins of sparks only exacerbates the turmoil because, eventually, even the most dim-processored among us could notice the holes in the creation myth.

            The fact that all new sparks are drawn from the same Well must challenge that Primus created Cybertrons and Unicron created Combatrons. If Primus and Unicron created separate races, then separate wells should exist for each build’s sparks. Instead, there exists only one Well of Allsparks: _all sparks_ originate from a singular pool. If the Council were to cling to this fiction, then their collective leadership fitness could be called into question. However, the lie of divine creation is unnecessary to believe that caste is determined by a specific spark’s qualities. For if we are drawn from the same Well, all of the potential attributes of a mech—positively or negatively received by society at large—stir together. It is the particular attributes that emerge that signify the identity of a mech.

            Our continued reliance on Primus and religion has only hampered our growth and posed a risk to reliable governance. It has created a drain on physical resources and mental capacity. Furthermore, insisting on trusting deceptions of convenience and comfort blinds us to the truths that lie before us, no matter how pleasing or disturbing they may be. Acknowledging and accepting the dismal, savage reality of our situation is the sole method by which we might make the most of our limited, excruciating, ultimately insignificant time in an indifferent universe.


	2. Betraying the Infallibly Fallible

            The quickest method of losing one’s credibility is to suggest that anything will remain intact for eternity. The only constant is that nothing is constant; everything is vulnerable to weathering and change. Rather, the only constant is our tumble to termination, with alteration and deterioration mere steps towards the inevitable end. That anything could continue—uninterrupted and unending—represents an inane idealism, persisting in mechs’ desperation to cling to their functions as they currently exist.

            Everything fails eventually. Paintjobs scratch and fade. Optics lose sensitivity to loose transmission cables or cracked and clouded lenses. Joints stiffen and become brittle, refusing to bend without breaking. Datapads’ screens crack; their files get corrupted; malicious mechs hack their connections; careless owners spill energon into their seams, shorting their circuitry; a valuable device rendered useless in a million circumstances.

            Replacements, too, corrode or wear out, creating a cycle of decay and replacement that will only cease when supplies become scarce or there is no one left to create new replacements. The latest fad arises and falls as the next one rises. Mechs seek out the next upgrade, the newest tech, the latest modification, which will be cast aside for the next upgrade, the newest tech, the latest modification until there is nothing new to be sought. Reuse materials as we might, we will eventually exhaust the energy to smelt old frames and the energon to fuel our machines and ourselves.

            As difficult as it may be for some to conceptualize, we cannot live forever because we will not always have a place to live. Assuming, when Alpha Centauri A achieves red giant status, Cybertron is spared destruction by Alpha Centauri B siphoning off burning gas through mass exchange, our planet will not be so lucky when Alpha Centauri B begins its own end stages. Even if we break away from our stellar system to seek solace elsewhere, we will only be binding ourselves to another doomed site, another eventual death.

            When we look out at the night sky, many of the stars lighting the universe are already dead. Others will expire in our lifetimes. Some may live long enough for us to reach their planetary systems, assuming they have any: thus far, astronomers have only collected evidence of a few orbiting some of our nearest stellar neighbors, like Helios. Stars may live on past our time, while others may not even be born until we are gone. Ultimately, they will all perish.

            The universe herself will eventually cease to be. Maybe she will reach thermodynamic equilibrium, leaving no force to interact, no motion to be made, and no work to act on anything. Maybe she will expand until every star blinks out and even black holes cease to warp the space around them, leaving nothing but a dark, cold, empty husk. Maybe she will stretch past her limit, until she either rips herself apart or collapses back into a singularity. Even if, from this singularity, a new universe springs forth in our place, the universe as we presently know it will be dead.

            The enormity of this event may be too abstruse a notion for some mechs as well; thankfully, we can see the eventual failure innate to function on a much more miniscule scale. The history of our planet, expansive as it may seem, is barely the space between two spark pulses in the scheme of the history of the universe. However, in that time, our planet and her societies have proven incredibly turbulent. We have never maintained a system of government for longer than a hectovorn, and even that has proven a generous estimate for how long any era will last.

            Even the most stable-seeming system is prone to the shifting tides. Our government and culture, as it presents itself now, is unlikely to remain until the last of Cybertron’s cycles. The most powerful and pure of our history could not prevent or quell dissent, and rebellions overtook those periods held most righteous and just in our data tracks. Furthermore, the very existence of the Combative caste acknowledges the potential that we will face war one sol and that we may or may not be victorious when that sol arrives.

            It could be correctly inferred that my skepticism of the supposed unfailing feeds my disbelief in Primus. If He existed, not even Primus could be perfect when all He has created is demonstrably imperfect. His planet is divided by deep fissures where rancorous creatures dwell; His creations bicker and wage war; He granted the planet a limited supply of energon. To grant him a modicum of trust would be no better than taking any other con artist at their word.

            Not even the most formidable forces observable can ensure flawlessness in all they enforce. Our own caste system—imposed by the strictest, most watchful government our planet has ever seen—matches sparks to suitable vocations, yet not even it is without its weaknesses. Mechs slip through the cracks, beleaguered by psychological strain, misplaced skill and interest, or forbidden unions. If such a stringently maintained system as ours has its leaks, then what can anyone trust not to?

            Because nothing in our functions, on the planet, in the solar system, or encompassing the entire universe is perfect or permanent, anything that claims to be infallible is to be distrusted. Misdirection is the friend of the practiced con-artist. Appealing to the desire of forever reels mechs in, but con-artists themselves would vanish if they actually supplied it. They only benefit from supplying a product or service that delights enough to bring their marks coming back; actually satisfying mechs needs for the rest of eternity—without repeated purchases or continuous payments—would dry out their consumer base.

            If they tried to sell a product that, by their own admission, was subject to the same fleeting existence as everything else, however, they would lose customers faster. With the exception of products that are meant to be disposable, most mechs do not wish to be reminded that they are spending credits on something that will fail. They want to believe that this expenditure will be the last, or that they will at least manage to forget spending the credits by the time purchasing a product again becomes necessary.

            When they sell a product as anything more than a temporary fix, they are essentially selling a lie. One pays, not solely for the product, but for the illusion that this will be the last time one will ever pay for that product. It relies on the consumer believing something we know, logically, to be nothing more than fantasy.

            Lies of perfection and eternity are soothing. Change is disruptive; it means potentially losing a beneficial situation, or it could mean being tossed from a disfavorable position that one at least has familiarity-bred control over to a disfavorable position where one is completely out of one’s depths, struggling just to get by. Even constant torture can seem better than variable torture. But the deceit of perfection, specifically, is appealing because it offers a painless predictability to life.

            The only step forward is to accept that nothing is infallible. Denying that problems exist only allows them to fester. Ignoring issues because one has been told the situation is optimal fails to prevent frustration. Recognizing and addressing flaws means being empowered to combat them, making every situation marginally less awful.

            Anything that claims purity must be scrutinized with extra precaution and discernment. Should it be determined, not only to be flawed, but to have greater defects than any mech should reasonably have to endure, it becomes one’s _duty_ to discard it and replace it with a system, ideology, or product more honest about its nature.


	3. A Note on Desperation

            If, through reading my work, one gains the impression that I am looking down on the rest of Cybertron, may they stand corrected. I am of a build only slightly larger than the average racecar; the only mech on which I could look down would have to be a two-wheeler or minicon.

When writing from my apartment, I am only on the thirteenth floor, and the building in which I reside is shorter and divided into smaller proportions than the practically legendary dwellings of Vos. I am unlikely to look down on anything from my window to begin with; I prefer a view of the stars endlessly moving away from our planet as the universe expands.

            The only place from which I look down are the bridges of Hydrax Canyons, where I take my vacations. Staring into the ravine’s dark depths inspires strange twists in the imagination, flexing the internal data links that allow untraveled logical paths to unravel in the processor. If the ruins of an ancient city lying in wait are not treat enough for contemplation, then the exhilaration of knowing you could plunge to oblivion at any moment certainly is.

            Literal interpretations of my critics intended figurative proclamations aside, I suppose I should address the matter of my perceived condescension. That I have characterized some mechs as feeble-helmed and naïve is undeniable, but to go so far as to accuse me of suggesting that these mechs are drone-like sheepitron would be incorrect. Intellectual and idiotic mechs alike can act in irrational ways because of the influence of emotion.

            Emotion can drive otherwise intelligent mechs away from topics which base instinct deems unpleasant. Consider my brief deliberation on the Hydrax Canyons above. Instinct repels most mechs from thinking about the potential danger of great heights. That I, instead, elect to linger on it could suggest to some that I _want_ this tragedy to befall me—that I want the bridges to fail while I stand on them or that I am at risk of leaping off. But in overcoming the instinctual repulsion against contemplating death, I have come to a greater understanding of survival responses and fear. It is not that no other mech has the processor to think what I do for themselves: it is that those mechs intelligent enough to come to my conclusions on their own either devote their time to other logical paths or do not have the voice to express their conclusions.

            Philosophy is the art of lecturing intellectuals on the manners in which their intellect has escaped them. All too often, scientists behave as though their emotions must be locked away for the sake of logic or that emotion may only be examined in terms of the biological processes by which emotions are produced. This is reasonable to a degree; scientists are expected to focus their study on scientific matters. However, philosophers can dwell on emotions without distancing themselves, examining the motives for emotions or even the very reasons emotions exist to begin with.

            By distancing themselves from their emotions, scientists of this breed are, essentially, admitting their weakness to emotional impulses. Emotions only dominate thought when they are particularly powerful or when a mech makes no effort to keep them in line. If logic is impeded by their emotions, it is indicative of an irrational processor and a lack of self-control.

            The answer is never to eliminate emotions; it is to embrace and acknowledge emotional reactions without letting them control one’s actions. The trap that most mechs fall into is letting emotion overpower reason instead of finding a balance. Backing away from topics that produce unpleasant emotional reactions is merely a symptom of this failure.

            However, examining why emotions have the hold that they do over mechs proves valuable. Knowing that emotions overpower reason is an important first step, but without going further, it becomes easy to pat oneself on the dorsal plating and continue letting oneself be controlled. Examining ones motives allows them to adjust their behavior and move forward.

            Survival instinct is the most prominent and obvious example of why mechs overvalue emotion. Mechs want to continue their functions, and fear is often caused by situations that could end our functions. However, attempting to avoid every situation that could result in extinguished sparks can be counterintuitive. We need energon to fuel and function, but we could not have energon were there no miners to risk cave-ins and explosions. The relative risk may seem smaller than mass starvation without mining would be, but that any mechs can handle it still represents an example of how allowing mechs to overcome fear is vital.

            Returning to the Hydrax Canyons example, it may seem more like a clear-cut example of how survival responses save lives without any negative consequences until one considers rappelling. Rappelling comes with all the danger of falling or jumping, with only the strength of a line protecting a mech from the danger of death. Despite this, attempting to reach the bottom of the Canyons to examine the ancient ruins below seems like a worthwhile intellectual endeavor because of the historical and cultural revelations they could provide.

            What this demonstrates is that not every response is predicated on considerations of survival; mechs also place value on matters not immediately relevant to functioning. Knowing history, in general, has not prevented our race from repeating the mistakes of our past, but we insist on preserving and studying some form of it. We could, hypothetically, maintain a record only of structural damage to areas and the causes without documenting the specific mechs involved or their motivations, but many would protest against this for the purely emotional aspect of the events and those involved. Even a figure like Solus Prime is remembered because of the sense of awe and pride her life inspired, not because her actions and decisions directly affect our present time.

            Which is not to suggest that we should forget Solus Prime. I would be lying to say that I am not in awe of her exploits myself. I would not have mentioned her as a role model for future Primes if I did not believe her memory worthy of respect. I mean only to use her prominent example of how not everything is dictated by logic or immediacy to our continued function.

            I write this note on desperation not to mock mechs for having emotional responses when I, too, am moved by the whims of my emotional responses. I write it only as a warning about letting these emotional responses run unchecked and, worse, allowing them to transform into desperation to begin with. It is one thing for mechs to allow emotions to make the occasional decision for them. It is another entirely to listen to emotion above all else, to cling to what emotion tells one the truth is even when faced with evidence to the contrary.

            At one time in our history, showering in acid rain was considered a viable treatment for cybonic plague. As medicine has advanced, we now know that acid rain has no effect on the symptoms or causes of cybonic plague and that it causes deep circuitry damage and sensory degradation, in addition to requiring full plating replacement for the armor damage it deals. If one were to proclaim acid rain’s curative properties at the present date, one would be sent to the hospital for processor scans, but for over a vorn, the desperate need for a cure for cybonic plague led many mechs to melt themselves in acid storms.

            There are some beliefs widely regarded as fact at this current time, but time may easily produce evidence to their inaccuracy. Many casualties may be the result of desperation for salvation. Because some mechs are so beholden to their emotions that they will leap at the first option that appeals to their need for safety and comfort, they miss sturdier options that would have become more obvious with consideration.

            When it seems as though I am condescending to mechs, it is only because they have given me reason to condescend to them. I grow weary of dealing with mechs who restrain themselves because of discomfort or cling to lies because they feel safer than the truth. Worse, I grow weary of dealing with other so-called intellectuals because they pretend not to be ruled by their emotions when their refusal to acknowledge emotion is simply another way to let themselves be ruled. I mean this as a wake-up call to these mechs in particular.


End file.
